by Rob Hart
She smiles, brushing her black hair out of her face, her cheeks flushed red. “Sorry, we’re in the middle of a session.”
“Yeah, about that. I need a favor.”
She tilts her head and smiles.
“Did those fed thugs make it out here?” I ask.
“They did not.”
“Good. I need some computer time. I don’t trust the house computer.”
She seems to think about this for a second, but ultimately frowns. “You know we don’t let people use our rig.”
“That’s why it’s a favor. I’ll owe you one.”
It’s a big ask. The office computer is a tricycle. The one here is a Ferrari. It would need to be. As I’m to understand things, they used to live in the real world, where they earned some good money and acclaim doing cam shows. They heard about South Village shortly after it opened and decided they wanted to move their operation here. But they wanted to do it on their terms, so they cut a deal with Tibo.
The hut was built custom for them, and they paid to install fiber optic internet and a dedicated feed of electricity. Only to them, not to the rest of the camp. That was Tibo’s decision, even though they offered to extend the lines to the main part of camp. He thought more robust internet and electricity were a slippery slope to turning this place into a Best Western.
South Village gets a small cut of their profits, as a form of rent. In exchange they get to live on the land, get access to everything in the camp, and maintain a level of privacy they hadn’t been afforded previously. Plus, they don’t have to do chores.
Besides the sign warning away visitors, everyone who comes to South Village gets a very stern warning about staying away from here. You normally don’t even come up to this place unless you’ve been invited.
Which makes me feel a little like an asshole even being here.
“A favor, huh.” Moony smirks. “What’s this I hear about night bacon?”
“Did Alex tell you?”
“She might have let it slip.”
“You want in on the bacon?”
“Both of us do. It has to be me and Sunny.”
“Is anyone here actually fucking vegan?”
She shrugs. “How long do you need?”
“Hour would be good.”
She whistles. “That’s a lot. Sunday is a big day for us. A lot of guys sitting at home with nothing better to do than to give us money.”
“Look…”
“Actually, maybe there is something else you can help us with.”
I nod, slowly. I feel like I know where this is going. Whenever someone gets that tone, it’s because they’re going to ask me to do something I’m not sure I want to do.
“We think there’s been someone outside at night,” she says. “The past few nights, we’ve been hearing stuff. Could be a squirrel, could be a person.”
“What do you want me to do? Sit on the porch all night with a shotgun?”
She shakes her head. “Keep an eye out. If you want to wander over here tonight for a few minutes, fine. You don’t have to move in. But, weren’t you, like, a private eye or something?”
“Listen, we’ll do a bacon party soon. Have you talked to Gideon? He’s the security guy.”
“Gideon insists on coming inside.”
“He’s kind of a creep, isn’t he?”
She nods. “He is. Let me grab Sunny. We’ve got an errand to run anyway.”
Moony ducks back inside and I sit down. More tasks to fulfill. This is like playing a video game and I’ve got side quests. But coming over tonight will be an easy thing to do. I figure it’s nothing. Nerves are running high, rustling suddenly sounds like footsteps.
Sunny comes out and as she walks past me, she points and says, “Night bacon.”
“Night bacon,” I tell her. “Got any booze on hand? I could go for a cocktail.”
Moony follows. She sticks one finger up in the air. “No. You have one hour.”
Dammit. “Okay.”
“Also, be careful about what you touch.”
“Double-got it.”
The two of them amble off into the woods and I step inside.
The air is heavy with incense. I can taste it. The room is dim, so it takes a second for my eyes to adjust. When they do, I am surrounded by dildos.
Surrounded.
In every size, every shape, every color of the rainbow. There are cartoon characters—Disney princesses and superheroes and figurines. Some are small and simple, others are large and intricate. A couple scare me deeply. They’re carefully arranged, like religious icons, glittering in the dim light on shelves that run the length of the room. There are two doors on the far end. Bedrooms, I figure.
In the middle of the room, there’s a massive Oriental carpet, on which there’s an assortment of plush, satin pillows. There’s a small stack of towels and a couple of bottles of lube off to the side, as well as a stack of board games. On the other side of the carpet is a half-disassembled Jenga tower, and a whiteboard with goofy names written on it—screennames, probably—with numbers scribbled next to them.
This makes me incredibly curious about the peculiar demands of guys who like to watch cam girls. I’ll need to revisit this.
At the other end of the room is a Mac, the monitor so big it could be mounted behind a bar playing a football game. It’s flanked by some big speakers and a couple of smaller camera rigs that are all wired into the monitor. There’s a chair set in front of it—I suspect for my benefit. I sit down, click on the desk lamp next to me.
First up, I open a web browser, drop into incognito mode so the computer won’t save anything I do, and get the cipher from my e-mail. I really don’t want to write this thing out since it’s pretty long, so even though I don’t see one, I click the printer button and pray. There’s a soft whirr off to my right. These girls are prepared. I take the printout of the photo, fold it up, and stick it in my pocket.
Next up, I confirm which edition of The Monkey Wrench Gang I need. Then I do a search for every bookstore in the area, come up with more than a dozen. Mostly used stores. I click on a website, find an e-mail address, write a quick e-mail with what I’m looking for, then send. Click, paste, repeat. I hit 11 in total. That’s a good start.
I do a quick check on Amazon. They’re not selling the edition I need on the main site, but find a re-seller who’s got a used copy for three dollars. The shipping information is a little unspecific—two to ten days. I click on it anyway, have it sent to Momma’s. A little insurance if the bookstores don’t bear out. And if it gets jammed up and arrives after I’m gone, fuck it, they can donate it to the library.
There’s a ping, so I click over to my e-mail and see my mom is requesting a video chat. When I left I promised I’d always answer when she called, which hasn’t been easy considering how often I don’t have a cell signal. I don’t get off camp enough to call her. This much, I owe to her.
But as I’m clicking the ‘accept’ button I realize my mistake.
A window pops up with my panicked face, and there is no mistaking that I am framed by the largest assortment of dildos ever assembled in one place.
There’s a small black cloth folded up under the monitor, and I drape it over the top of the computer, where the little green light is showing that the camera is active. My face disappears as my mom’s face appears.
She’s lit blue, slightly distorted. Her neat hair a little grayer than I remember it. This is the first time I’ve seen her since I left. There’s a tightness in my chest. That feeling of emptiness expanding and pressing itself out.
She looks around like she’s searching an empty room. “Honey, are you there?”
“Yeah Ma, I’m here.”
“I can’t see you.”
“I think the camera is busted. I can see you okay though.”
She looks so sad. That makes me feel terrible. Not bad enough to remove the cloth.
“So how are things with your friend down in Georgia?” she asks.
“It doesn’t sound good.”
“It’s not bad.”
“Still planning your big trip to Europe?”
“Got my tickets. Leaving in less than two weeks now.”
“Well, that’s nice…”
Her voice trails off. Which means she doesn’t think it’s nice. What she wants is for me to come home. Even a quick stop. She also doesn’t want to ask me to do it, and I don’t want to offer. Home right now is a big bridge that’s been burnt down to embers. The reason she didn’t fight me leaving is because she knew I needed it, but I’m sure we’ve gotten to the point where she regrets it.
“Ma, how are things at the house?”
“They’re good. Still getting water in the basement.”
“You call one of dad’s friends?”
“Yeah. Billy Ryan. You remember him? He does foundations.”
“I do, yeah.” Firefighting doesn’t pay well—tragically—so a lot of guys tend to take side-gigs. Especially in construction fields, because it’s good, off-the-books money. I don’t think a single job has ever been done in my parents’ house that wasn’t done by someone on the job.
Thinking about that makes me think about my dad. What he would be doing if he were still alive. He’d still be on the job, I’m sure. For as little as I remember, he didn’t seem to be the retiring type. Maybe he’d do electrical work. I seem to remember he was pretty good at that.
It makes me wish I could remember more about him.
Again, I am happy that my mom can’t see my face.
I check my watch. I’ve got about a half hour left. No time to be wistful. “Ma, listen, I’m sorry but I’m on borrowed time here with the computer and I got a few things to finish. Can I call you soon?”
“Maybe you can try and fix the camera for next time? It’d be nice to see you.”
My hand reaches up toward the lint cloth. Maybe I can tilt the monitor. Maybe if I click off the desk lamp the background will fade out and she’ll only see me. Give her that much.
And then I pull my hand back. Wonder if she’ll see that stereogram image. She’s good like that. The thought of putting that kind of hurt on her isn’t worth it.
“I’ll give it a try next time, Ma,” I tell her. “I’m sorry about that.”
“Okay. Call soon.”
“Got it. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
There’s a look on her face as she signs off, in that frozen moment before the screen disappears, somewhere between sadness and disappointment. I’m not sure where on the scale it lands, and even thinking about it stings, so I click out of my e-mail.
Back to work. I search for the Soldiers of Gaia.
And find nothing.
Well, not nothing. I find a song by a weird electronic rave band called Soldiers of Gaia. I knew it sounded like a band. There’s also a role playing guild for an online war game. But nothing related to eco-terrorism. Nothing that would spur the feds to storm in here and give us the Guantanamo treatment. I’m clicking over to the second page of search results when I hear a rustle outside.
Sunny and Moony maybe? I check my watch. Still got fifteen minutes.
Could be an animal.
Footsteps come up the porch. There’s no mistaking that sound.
What if it’s not Sunny and Moony?
What if it’s someone who saw Sunny and Moony out and about, and figured this place would be empty?
I close out of the browser and cross to the door, my footsteps echoing in the hollow of the raised floor, and realize too late that it must be audible from outside. I get the door open, my eyes stinging from the sudden blast of sunlight, and I see something crash through the woods.
I follow, running hard, trying to keep from tripping over the stray log or elevation in the earth. I can’t even see who or what I’m chasing. I think maybe there’s a flash in front of me, but that could be my eyes playing tricks. Once you’re in the woods the world looks like a painted backdrop.
There’s an open clearing ahead. As I’m about to enter it, passing the trees guarding the perimeter, something hits my face. Heavy, sticky strands wrap around my head, and something hard scratches against my nose.
My insides scream.
There is a spider on my face.
There is a giant monster spider on my fucking face.
I fall to the ground and slap at it, trying to get it off me. Spitting, crying in my throat, my mouth clamped shut so hard my teeth ache. The web is keeping it pressed to my face so I pull at it and when I feel like I’ve got a good grip, fling my arm out so hard it hurts my shoulder.
After I’m sure my face is clear—and only then—I open my eyes. Brush away the rest of the web that’s wrapped around my head, shaking, breathing so fast it’s making me dizzy. My heart feels like it’s going to explode in my chest. I press a hand to my sternum, calm myself.
In front of me there’s a loose pile of earth, freshly turned over. I stick my hand in it because of how odd it is. It’s like the kind of earth you would dig up out of a hole. Except there are no holes. This is a completely untouched portion of camp. It looks like a cross between forest and jungle. Probably drops off into swamp in another few hundred feet.
The freshly-uncovered earth makes me think of Portland, and the hole I dug, and I feel the waves lapping at my feet, and it gets even worse when I look up and see Cannabelle’s body, limbs splayed out, staring up, unblinking into the sun.
I’m still running when I get back to the main part of camp. The clearing between the domes is empty now. Aesop, shirtless in a pair of jeans, is coming out of the kitchen and reads something on my face because he breaks into a run, too.
“Where’s Tibo?” I ask.
He shakes his head. I take off toward the office dome, with Aesop following behind. Tibo is inside the bar area, sitting in a chair in the corner, reading a book. I stop to catch my breath as he sticks a scrap of paper into the book and puts it down besides him.
“What happened?” he asks.
I check around to make sure it’s the three of us. When I’m sure of that I tell him, “Cannabelle.”
“Is she okay?”
“No.”
Tibo gets up, his face twisted in panic. “Let’s go.”
I lost my bearings, so we have to go to Sunny and Moony’s place to find her again. I follow the path I made through the forest. I’m worried I went the wrong direction but the clearing appears. I was really hoping it was a hallucination. That I was wrong. But no, Cannabelle is still lying there.
Aesop stops and puts his hands on his knees, looks at the ground, breathing long and slow, in through his mouth, out through his nose. He does this a few times and straightens up.
“What happened?” Tibo asks.
“I don’t know. Someone tried to sneak up on Sunny and Moony. I chased them. Found this.”
“Why were you with Sunny and Moony?”
“I was using the computer. They let me. Let’s concentrate on this right now?”
The sun is beating down on Cannabelle so her skin still looks flush, but there’s purple creeping around the lips. Her skin is slack, falling away from her. Dead not like dead in the movies. There are flies buzzing around her, a fat black one perched on her lip.
As Tibo inches forward a twig cracks underfoot and he steps back. He looks up and there’s a long, heavy branch of a tree overhanging her, casting a shadow across her midsection.
“Maybe she fell,” he says.
I squat down. Her neck is broken. It’s tilted at an inhuman angle. Just slightly too far. I’m not an expert but her arms and her legs look intact. The canopy above us is high. Three stories, at least. A fall like that would have to fuck up a body more than this. There’s no blood, even. No fallen branches. Almost like she’s lying down to take a nap.
Her hands are caked in dirt, too, the whites of her fingernails dark from where it’s packed in and c
aked. She was digging.
“I don’t think she fell,” I tell them. “I don’t think her grow rigs are around here.”
“Okay,” Tibo says. “Okay. Fuck. Whatever happened, I need to call Ford. We have to keep this quiet. I don’t want anyone else knowing right now.”
“Are you sure?” Aesop asks.
“If this is a crime scene, then we don’t want everyone crowding around here. I don’t want another Pete.”
“I’m going to retrace my steps,” I tell him. “See if the person I chased dropped something, or if there’s anything else worth finding.”
“You sure those things are connected?”
“If it’s the same person, they killed her before they came to see Sunny and Moony. Wouldn’t have been enough time to do it while I was chasing them. Worth checking.”
Aesop steps toward me. “I’ll come.”
The way he says it, like a statement, makes me figure I shouldn’t refuse him.
Tibo nods and jogs off, crunching through the brush.
And then it’s me and Aesop. And Cannabelle.
We stand there for a few moments, baking in the heat. We look at each other, both of us searching for something to hold on to. We recognize that in each other and it’s a bit much, so we both look away.
“You want to lead?” he asks.
“Sure.”
We set off through the woods. I feel bad leaving Cannabelle alone, and need to remind myself that she’s dead.
Aesop and I walk in silence, single file, looking around for things we don’t know we’re looking for. When the clearing has disappeared behind us and we’re surrounded by trees and foliage on all sides, I hear Aesop come to a stop behind me.
“Pete wasn’t the first dead body you’ve seen,” he says.
“Can’t be your first,” I tell him.
I say it like a challenge, hoping he takes the hint and doesn’t broach the subject any further. I can feel his eyes on me, like he’s trying to figure me out. I’m not a big fan of that, but there’s not much I can do.